Subtexts
by vieralynn
Summary: An in-game epic from Fran, Penelo, and Ashe's point of view. Includes all pairings and close friendships suggested in canon, plus additional pre-game pairings.


**.Fran.**

Her sky.

Viera are born from the Wood. Born from the trees. Born from leaves, from moss, from roots. When the sun's light is interned within the Wood, it is a murky golden green, long ribbons slanting down from the high canopy above. The sacred leaves of the Wood shield vieran eyes from harsh rays that scorch other lands. The Green Word says it is best to know the sun as glowing dust motes caught in the falling light. Not only is the sun diminished within the Wood, the sisters only know of the rain as dripping wetness, the stars as a silent hush, the night as an absence of heaven-sent light.

Fran remembers little of life beneath the heavy canopy of the Wood. Only oppression. The stifling blanket of green strung above their heads, tenting all of their world within it. She is no longer welcome there. She knows this without needing to return. To this day, every plant her hand touches remains as mute to her ears as they are to a hume's. But none of this matters. Long ago, she traded the Wood for the sky, and now the light of the sky sings her home.

She knows the anatomy of the clouds, and how currents of air hold her ship aloft. She knows the birthplace of the hazy soot that stains red sunsets over Rozarria's eastern cities. She knows the midday diamond brilliance snaking the path of the River Nebra. The daggers of light cutting between Archadian skyscrapers. The pitter-patter of rain against the windows above her drafting table at YPA Shipwrights. The winter dance of the aurora over islands off the coast of Old Landis. The endless rush of blue above her, the land in miniature below, and her hands moving faster than her mind can think, steadying the Strahl when flying through turbulent air. She can read the flux in the airship's skystone as if written in her native tongue.

So far during her life she has traded wood for stone, stone for grease, grease for flesh, flesh for theft. Living in the hume world, half a century passed before she became what they've always called her: an outlaw. Six years she has been on the run. She runs through the sky.

.

Beside her, the hume in the pilot's chair twirls two upraised fingers, signaling for her to cloak the ship. She responds without a word.

He points to the west, to the dark line of airships stretched across the sky. Below them the maze of desert sandstone spires flattens into the Rabanastrian plain. The Archadian 8th Fleet is a great barrier hovering in the air. At one end, the Ifrit, a floating mechanical beast. At the other end, the gleaming hull of the Dreadnought Leviathan, a metallic hive hosting a swarm of small ships that buzz in and out, busy with their daily missions. Archadia is forever a machine at war. Fran prepares for their approach.

These six years of running are coming to an end. How much longer can a man run before he tires, or before he declares his journey complete? Fran still remembers learning how long a hume could live inside a concrete warren before seeking passageway up. After ten years, she traded four dim rooms in lower Trant for a glass-domed cockpit and the artificial light inside hull of a ship. After tonight's heist, she'll trade this ship for something else. Balthier refuses to speak of it, but she knows better than he will admit: this heist will be their last.

.

She looks to Balthier but does not need to ask him where they will land. He knows how she learned to hide in the wake of heavy carriers, and how to cut away on the tail of light cruiser ships. She works the skystone as if navigating an Archadian spycraft. In a sense, she still is.

Their approach follows an Archadian's ship lead, making them circle and descend, and then circle again. Before they drop into their final approach, Fran transmits a stolen code to Rabanastre's air control. Somewhere in the aerodome, a memstone in an Archadian computer records Magister Gabranth's request to land. The code overrides any need for the military to clear their ship for docking. On this late Spring evening in the year 706 O.V., no one notices the discrepancy of a Magister arriving twice in the same day without leaving.

The Strahl docks in the aerodome's unused north terminal without raising an eye. All of Rabanastre is busy preparing for the evening's celebrations, and as a show of new leadership, Consul Vayne Solidor has halved the number of foot soldiers on Rabanastre's streets. Fran already knows where Vayne has redirected his security forces, but until she and Balthier reach their destination, they should be able to blend in unnoticed with the city's common folk.

Rather than walk the entire length of the city's main concourse, Fran packs supplies on her hover as Balthier loads it with extra fuel. They'll follow a merchant's road up along the western edge of the city, taking them straight to the festival held for the public in the outer palace courtyard. Although Balthier still does not understand why, she is doing this for both of them, not because of events from her past.


End file.
